Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Then there was only Mother and I, and the interrogation began.
“Are you dating anyone?” She set down her fork. Pushed her barely touched slice of cake forward and eyed mine pointedly.
“No.” I smiled as I had been taught. Always smile. Smiles hid feelings.
“Why not? You’re twenty-five. You only have a few good years left.”
“I’m happy, Mother. I will find someone soon.”
“I think you should reconsider Jeff Rochester. You dated him for almost two years.” Four months. Four months that we spun into a two-year relationship to keep my parents appeased and his gay lifestyle a secret.
“I’ve heard that Jeff is seeing someone. And we really didn’t have any chemistry.” I took another bite of cake, enjoying the pain in her eyes when I swallowed it.
“Chemistry isn’t important. He’s from a good family—will provide for you.”
My trust fund would provide for me. I didn’t need a relationship without chemistry, a prison sentence that would paint a smile on my madness and lead me into an early case of depression and pharmaceutical drug use. But I didn’t want to mention the trust. Not when I was an hour away from finishing this party and heading straight to the bank.
“Janice Wilkins told me she saw you working downtown. Please tell me that’s not true.”
I smiled. “I have a degree in quantitative science. It’s not unreasonable for me to consider using it. I am doing consulting for a medical firm. Overseeing some FDA trials.”
“Please don’t. Work causes stress, which will prematurely age you. And you only have—”
“A few good years left.” I finished her sentence, keeping my voice light. Took another bite of cake. Scraped every bit of icing off the plate and slid the fork into my mouth. Sucked on the tings. Killed a little of my mother’s soul.
“We’ve worked so hard for you to have a good life.”
“And I do. You’ve done a wonderful job, and I’m very happy.”
“What about Ned Wimble? I heard he and that Avon heir ended things.”
I set down my fork, squeezed my hands together underneath the table, and smiled.
I left my parents’ house a few hours later, a bag of gifts in the trunk of my car. Cashmere cardigan. Sapphire earrings from my father. A JD Robb paperback from Becky, the maid who probably knew more about me than both of my parents combined. She was the one who cleaned up my puke in the bathroom when my drunken teenage self didn’t make it through the night. She’d thrown away condoms, birth control packets, and vodka bottles. Held me at fifteen, when I suffered my first broken heart, courtesy of Mitch Brokeretch—who didn’t deserve my virginity, much less my tears.
My real gift wasn’t in the trunk. It was in the date, the trust paperwork that had been completed before my first birthday. Twelve million dollars waited for me in a joint account that I had watched from afar for over a decade. With that date, with the papers I was about to sign, I would be free from my parents, from their expectations and requirement that have held this money above my head for the last twenty years. I drove to the attorney’s office, and, thirty minutes later, was a free woman. I allowed a small smile—a real one—upon my exit from Jackson & Scottsdale. Allowed a full beam once I visited the bank and transferred the funds into a money market account that was solely in my name.
Then, freedom. It felt damn good. I put down my convertible’s top and screamed into the wind. Celebrated the evening with one of my building’s valets—a twenty-one-year-old kid who only made it five pumps, but brought some good weed and laughed at my jokes.
It was a sad start to my new life.
Chapter 2
3 YEARS AGO
I spent my first two decades planning, holding out for the moment when I could desert this culture. Throw off my cardigan and manners and rush headfirst into life. Dance in the moonlight. Smoke a cigar. Ride a motorcycle and fall in love for a reason other than social standing. I had romantic notions of waiting tables, hitchhiking across America, kissing a strange boy, feeling a rush of unknown possibilities. I hated every stitch of my surroundings and craved escape. Wanted to leave the dinner parties, the ingrained disdain of others, and raised brows of judgment. I wanted the happily-ever-after of movies. Where my family would share their day while eating at a round table. Wanted to visit life in a world where mothers hugged daughters with bruises and consoled them after first dates went awry. My dream had legs, fully developed fantasies, my future as clear as my past. The day of my twenty-fifth birthday, I had felt free. Filled with hope and possibilities. The first day of the rest of my life.
Yet, five years later, I was still stuck. I’d had a few wild nights. Fucked some strangers with calluses on their hands. Visited a 7-Eleven and bought a hot dog. Went to Tijuana long enough to realize I would never go back. Then… like a migrating bird, I drifted home to this world. Settled back in without even realizing it. Five years later and I was still surrounded by the people from my youth. The friends who weren’t friends. The parties in which everyone smiled but no one had fun. Where life was a constant race to one-up each other, and the prom queen was still the bitch no one liked but everyone flocked to like maggots to meat. I needed to escape this life, I needed to find something different, I needed to make my own path, but it was hard to escape the only world I had ever known.